


The Power In His Hands

by Mazarin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, Jealousy, M/M, PWP, Strippers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-06
Updated: 2011-12-06
Packaged: 2017-10-27 00:32:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/289601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazarin221b/pseuds/Mazarin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You liked him,” Sherlock says, and John wonders if he’s imagining the trace of jealousy in his tone.  Christ, he could be playing at anything right now; they are on a case, after all. But they’d been trading casual touches and not-so-innocent banter for weeks now, leaving John wondering who would end up making the first move.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Power In His Hands

The club is dark, the air thick with sweat and smoke-machine fog and the smell of stale beer. John grimaces at his own drink, which of course Sherlock ordered for him without asking, and wishes desperately for something neither fruity, nor sweet, nor quite so appallingly alcoholic. Keeping his wits about him seems crucial at a time like this, getting to know the club owners well enough their presence wouldn’t be remarked upon during a later, longer-term visit.

Sherlock is long gone, threading his way through the tables and past the stage, toward the back door marked “Dancers Only.” John envies his remarkable ability to fit in anywhere, with anyone he chooses, using his face and voice and attitude to work his way into the confidence of anyone he meets. It worries John, sometimes, the practiced ease with which he can get anyone to believe whatever lie pours off his quicksilver tongue, and wonders how often it’s worked on him.

John pushes his drink away, turns his attention to the stage. He’s been to plenty of clubs— all men or mixed, legal and otherwise—over the years, but he’s never been in one like this, a private, members only all-male strip club set up in a discreet little house on a quiet side-street in the West End. Only one tiny logo on the door marks the place, a unicorn head in profile painted over the handle on the door.

A dancer makes his way up onto the platform built into one side of the room, the lights darkening on cue to a smoky blue and a deep, sultry beat cranking out of the speakers. He’s a young man, almost too young by John’s standards, barely eighteen if he’s a day with quite a bit of filling out left to do. He starts slowly, his body swaying to the beat and accentuated by the flash of blue across his subtly shimmering skin. John watches mesmerized as he rocks his body, nothing in his movements inherently dirty or particularly evocative, but so alluring that John can’t look away despite himself.

“He’s 19, has four little sisters at home, and his father thinks he’s working in a restaurant.”

John jumps, swearing at Sherlock’s sudden appearance, his words whispered into John’s ear in such proximity it makes the hair on John’s arms rise. “Pretty hard to explain the kind of money he makes here as coming from a job as a waiter,” he says, and his voice is surprisingly shaky. He hasn’t turned his head to acknowledge Sherlock, instead keeping his focus on the dancer’s lithe body as he slips the tight, black shorts down and off, leaving him completely nude. To John’s shock, he begins to slowly stroke himself, his rather sizeable cock growing under the ministrations of his own hand and John really, really wants to leave before things get even more graphic.  He turns to Sherlock to suggest they get out of there, but when he does he finds Sherlock watching him, pale eyes luminescent from the glow of the stage lights.

“Shall we leave?” Sherlock says, and pulls John up by his elbow, propelling him toward the stage door. They zigzag through rooms and dark hallways until they’re near the back door, an alcove with stairs that twist into the higher floors, the low thrum of music barely reaching their ears.

John nearly yelps when Sherlock crowds up behind him, the heat of his body seeping through John’s shirt.  Sherlock’s hands sneak around his hips, holding him close.

“You liked him,” Sherlock says, and John wonders if he’s imagining the trace of jealousy in his tone.  Christ, he could be playing at anything right now; they are on a case, after all. But they’d been trading casual touches and not-so-innocent banter for weeks now, leaving John wondering who would end up making the first move.

John steps back, presses his body to Sherlock’s chest in the sudden, eerie quiet. “He was gorgeous, and there to be looked at. What’s not to like?” He gasps when he feels Sherlock’s lips at the nape of his neck, dragging wet heat across his hairline. A sharp nip of teeth encourages his head to the side, exposing more of his skin to Sherlock’s mouth.

“ _I’m_ there for you to look at,” Sherlock murmurs, licking a broad stripe up John’s neck.  “Seeing you become aroused like that … you know I want you. Badly.”

“You haven’t been exactly subtle. But we should wait ‘till we’re home,” John counters. They haven’t even properly kissed and John’s body thrums with desire, humming along his nerves and leaving him warm and pliant. Sherlock reaches to unbuckle John’s belt, dips one hand under the waistband of John’s pants to caress his cock and the other up his shirt to tease a nipple, using the advantage of those long arms to envelop John utterly, cage him in.  John tips his head back against Sherlock’s shoulder, grasps his hip, and abandons himself to the feel of Sherlock’s teeth on the long tendon where neck meets shoulder, shuddering as Sherlock’s fingers wrap around him, stroke him, draw as much pleasure from his body as they can until he comes, shaking apart in Sherlock’s arms.

Sherlock kisses his neck one last time, then pulls out a handkerchief and cleans them both up. John straightens and tucks and makes himself presentable, barely, because he can feel the smug grin on his face that will probably announce their activities to the world. He turns, ready to kiss Sherlock hard, push him against the wall and get his own back, but when he sees the dark look on Sherlock’s face, he stops short.

“What is it?” he asks, and looks back over his shoulder to see the young dancer from earlier making his way down the hall, glitter-free and looking even younger, if that were possible, in a hoodie and jeans.

“’Night, boys,” he calls, and Sherlock’s expression transforms at once into an interested, friendly smile.

“Lovely show. You’re a fantastic dancer,” Sherlock croons, and John’s heart sinks to his shoes. “See you next week?” The boy beams, Sherlock’s chameleon charms finding their mark once again. John steps back, feeling the uncomfortable stickiness of come drying against his skin.

The dancer pushes by, leaving them alone again in the hallway, John slumped back against the wall.

Sherlock stands in front of him for a moment, then tips John’s head up with his fingertips. “I’ve done something wrong already,” he says. “Three minutes might be a record.”

“We’ve waited all this time, and for what? A handjob in a hallway? Was that real, at all? I never know.”

Sherlock studies him a moment, then wraps his arms around John’s waist and pulls him in, pressing his mouth to John’s in a searing kiss that goes straight to John’s head, making it hard to breathe and see and _think_ properly. John feels the truth of that kiss, the absolute naked longing of Sherlock’s lips against his, the promise of more if he lets himself simply _believe_.

Sherlock pulls away gently and John opens his eyes to find him pensive, waiting. “Does that help?” he asks.

 John takes a deep breath, gives his heart over in faith. “Yes,” John says, and takes Sherlock’s hand to lead him back to Baker Street in the crisp autumn night.

 

 _Title from MGMT, Electric Feel_  

 


End file.
